The Case Of the Missing Raven
by belladonnacordial
Summary: Holmes and Watson, a SLASH story written in the style of Poe's The Raven! Warnings for historical boarding school realities. No raven was harmed in the making. The same can not be said for Poe or Doyle.


I receive no money and sadly no offers of money. This is a work of fan fiction  
and SH/JW SLASH. This is nothing to do with me. It's entirely the fault of  
Arthur Conan Doyle, Edgar Allan Poe, Holmes, Watson, and a big bird that  
wouldn't budge off my metaphorical bust of Pallas.

I attempted to preserve as much of Poe as made slash sense and therefore  
suited my twisted purposes. This is shorter than the original, only twelve  
instead of seventeen stanzas. I did do all seventeen but liked these first  
twelve best. You would not believe how much time and coffee this represents.  
If you ever do want to drive yourself completely around the loop, I highly  
recommend rewriting Poe's poetry as slash.

For some reason I lost formatting when this posted. Hope I fixed it.

**_T_**he **_C_**ase of the **_M_**issing **_R_**aven

Once upon a sleepless Sunday, how I paced awaiting Monday  
crossing endless unforgiving miles of well-known, worn, wooden floor.  
At a sound my head was cocking toward the door I hated locking.  
There came then just a gentle knocking, knocking at my bedroom door.  
"Do enter Watson! There's a fellow. Welcome ever as before.  
Don't stand there gawking at my door!"

Clearly I'm recalling, the rain was, that frightful night, appalling.  
Instead I watched his footsteps falling heavily across the floor.  
I placed him in his solitary mood, forlorn, still missing Mary,  
adrift the shreds of life that follow hollow loss of all before.  
I went at once into my bureau, found the flask worth searching for,  
"Require some courage?" "Never more!"

As the flask was passed, fingers brushing promptly sent my cheeks to flushing.  
The blame inflamed was not as crushing, not quite as shameful as before.  
But to still the blood a-pounding in my heart, I stood expounding,  
"What we need is some confounding, a twisted puzzle to explore,  
A rather complicated case to occupy us as before.  
This is the matter, nothing more!"

As my words, poured out unbuffered, seemed to add to all he suffered,  
"I did not mean- dear Watson, truly, your forgiveness I implore.  
I wish that I knew how to be this comfort that you are for me.  
While I may see through mystery, I can not solve what others see.  
I dare not hope to puzzle out lost love or human hearts explore-  
just darkness there and nothing more."

Deep into those dark eyes peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,  
doubting, dreaming dreams no good man ever dared to dream before.  
Heavy silence hung unbroken. Then a word I scarce heard spoken,  
and the only word there spoken the softly whispered word, "Amour!"  
Softly he whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Amour?"  
This I murmured, nothing more.

Back toward my cold bed turning, all the blood within me burning,  
Dreaded hope within me yearning for all I'd never had before,  
Thinking surely I had heard wrong, or the word named some French love song,  
Let me see? What threat was muttered save a mystery to explore?  
Let my heart be still a moment, my whole uncluttered mind explore,  
"Is it a song and nothing more?"

His hand burned on my shoulder. I turned to see him looking older,  
What manners lower, colder, not to offer him a seat before?  
"No point in standing there; please Watson, have my bed- or take the chair."  
He much preferred the chair but took my bed with eyes upon the floor.  
I entertained a notion- should I open, leave open my door?  
I sat beside him, nothing more.

Then this honest man beguiling my misgivings into smiling  
By his grave and stiff decorum and the countenance he wore,  
"As you know I take to pacing. Without sleep, it is most bracing,  
yet I think your visits gracing, fine distractions from that nightly chore.  
Do you find your nights at Baker Street more lonely than before?"  
My Watson answered, "Never more."

Much I marvelled fear ungainly when I heard his discourse plainly,  
Although his answer little meaning, little relevancy bore.  
For we cannot help agreeing every living human being  
Ever blessed with eyes for seeing sees meaning where there is no more.  
So what if my beloved friend arrived there at my bedroom door  
far more than lonely, never more?

But poor Watson, sitting lonely on my feather bed, spoke only  
Two tiny words, as if his soul in those two words he did outpour.  
With nothing further said, he sat in perfect silence on my bed  
'Til I scarcely more than muttered, "You mustn't ask of me for more.  
We both know one day you will leave me, just as you were wed before."  
My Watson promised, "Never more."

Startled at his stillness broken, by reply so aptly spoken,  
"Doubtless am I then, John Watson, for your very word is stock and store."  
But thoughts of lurid schoolboy bendings, heavy hands, the messy endings  
Followed fast and followed faster until his gift those burdens bore,  
Until the lift of my own hopes those melancholy burdens bore.  
He took my hand and nothing more.

So my dear friend still persuading, once more sent my fears to fading,  
"Holmes, tonight may I remain here with you? Just to sleep! An hour or two?"  
Soon into the linens sinking, I betook myself to linking  
Arms about the other like those sleeping brothers-in-arms of yore.  
More practiced arts await the challenge of finding my own heart's core.  
Tout est mystère dans l'Amour(1).

(1) All is mystery in love. Holmes is quoting 18th century writer Jean de la Fontaine.

...thank you for reading! Any comments will transform sidewalk glass into diamonds,  
oilslicks into rainbows, and my cat- well, into my cat. No, he did not eat the raven!  
I don't know where it went. Reichenbach Falls maybe?


End file.
